Next to Mr. Rhodes, to me the most interesting convulsion of nature in South Africa was the diamond-crater.

On Monday and Tuesday at sunrise we again had fair-to-middling views of the stupendous mountains; then, being well cooled off and refreshed, we were ready to chance the weather of the lower world once more.

From Wikipedia:

Wherever you are, in Calcutta, and for miles around, you can see it; and always when you see it you think of Ochterlony. And so there is not an hour in the day that you do not think of Ochterlony and wonder who he was. It is good that Clive cannot come back, for he would think it was for Plassey; and then that great spirit would be wounded when the revelation came that it was not. Clive would find out that it was for Ochterlony; and he would think Ochterlony was a battle.

When India is mentioned to the citizen of a far country it suggests Clive, Hastings, the Mutiny, Kipling, and a number of other great events; and the mention of Calcutta infallibly brings up the Black Hole. And so, when that citizen finds himself in the capital of India he goes first of all to see the Black Hole of Calcutta—and is disappointed.

It was winter. We were of Kipling's "hosts of tourists who travel up and down India in the cold weather showing how things ought to be managed." It is a common expression there, "the cold weather," and the people think there is such a thing. It is because they have lived there half a lifetime, and their perceptions have become blunted.

Many Mark Twain enthusiasts have commented on his life-long dislike of imperialism and the resultant puffed-up vanity of colonialism. The one exception to this rule was the jewel in the crown of imperialism, the British Raj reign of India. Not only did he forgive the British for their incursion but on numerous occasions pointed out how beneficial it was to the natives; how lucky they were to have the British to rule over them.

Our last stops are two in one, both at the next ghat to the south, Kedar. First we climb up the red and white striped steps to the red and white striped South Indian Kedar Temple that Twain called the “Cow Temple”. Shailesh feels sure that by “cow” he means Nandi, Shiva’s bull vehicle and to which then and now the Hindus pray for relief from hunger.

Feeling full of good cheer we now climb the steep steps up to the nearest temple just a touch further south, the Sitala Temple. The bells will guide you there; there are dozens of them and most of them seem to ring most of the time. Shoes off and in we go. Ding dong ding dong. It’s quite a racket, as loud as the horns heard in the back of a rickshaw, and I head back out more or less immediately counter-clockwise against the flow. Twain reckoned it wise to pray “in the temple sacred to Sitala, goddess of smallpox.

Here, at our next stop, we are in for a nice surprise. The temple Twain described is, or rather was, “Dalbhyeswar, on the bluff overlooking the Ganges, so you must go back to the river.” It has since been washed away in one of the floods and has now become a kind of unofficial wedding ghat and if you are lucky—and the bride and groom need an astrologically auspicious day to marry—you will see a constant colorful procession of splendidly dressed young Indians go to and from the water’s edge.